Let Love Go
by Sagacious Rage
Summary: An exploration of the in-between times, as Laica Hawke and Sebastian Vael's relationship progresses.
1. Vigil

A/N: I'm not sure yet where I'm going with this. I know I want it to go _somewhere_ but at this time I'm not willing to start another multi-chapter WIP until Restoration is finished. However, I couldn't get this out of my head. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Laica fidgeted about the sacristy, afraid to touch anything shinier than the unlit candles that were neatly stacked on the table opposite the door. She picked up a small pair of scissors with fingers that felt swollen and clumsy and began trimming wicks, trying to pretend like she had a reason to be there.

"Hawke?" a voice said from behind her.

She was so startled she jumped and dropped the scissors. "Sebastian!" she laughed, hoping she did not sound as nervous and shrill to him as she did to her own ears. "Fancy meeting you here."

Sebastian paused at the door, and then left it open. "I think it is more surprising to find you here. Is this some penance you have assigned yourself? Trimming wicks?"

"Something like that," Laica muttered as she turned back to the candles. "What are you doing?"

He made his way to the cabinets on her her left. "Checking stores of lamp oil, replacing dirty robes with clean ones, collecting the money from the poor boxes." He sighed softly, and his shoulders slumped just the slightest bit. "I would much rather be more involved, but this is what the Grand Cleric asks of me."

"You're a capable sort," Laica said with forced jovially. "I'm sure she'll find some use for your talents." She pushed aside the enticing thoughts of what those "talents" could be, lest she distract herself so much she trim a finger instead of a wick.

"It's not my capability she doubts," he confessed. "It's my dedication. These are the tasks permitted the laity, so these are the tasks I perform."

"I see," she responded, feeling utterly lost.

"Laica," he turned to her. She didn't look, but could feel his eyes on her, the space between them closing as he walked toward her. "You shouldn't be here at this hour."

"You're right, I'm sorry. The impropriety..." she babbled as he placed an hand on her arm and slowly turned her.

"It's not..." he started, barely whispering. "Well, yes. I admit that is a concern. But there's also the issue of your safety. Sneaking into the chantry after-hours is an odd pastime for an apostate."

"But what if I had a good reason," she protested. He still had not let go of her arm, and she felt electric tingles along her skin.

"It would have to be," he said, rueful. "Whatever the reason is, I hope it is more compelling than trimming wicks."

She twisted the scissors around her finger. "Say, you were in a difficult situation. Where somebody... _felt_ something for you. Feelings you didn't return. But you didn't want to hurt them. What would you do?"

He laughed and her heart plummeted. If he didn't before, he surely thought her a fool now.

"I owe you a great debt, one I may never fully repay." He said, returning to his work. "But I can't imagine I am the best person for you to ask for advice in these matters. One of your more worldly friends would be better counsel."

She clutched the scissors in frustration. "Yes, maybe. But... they'd also gossip. You know they would. And I," she took a deep breath. "I trust you."

"Then you do me a great honor," he said as he turned back to her. "Very well, I will try to be worthy of it." He frowned thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. "Since I joined the Chantry, it has happened from time to time that a friend or acquaintance has desired more than a platonic relationship." He shrugged. "Usually, if the situation gets out of hand, I just assure them how seriously I take my vows and do my best to limit interaction. But I doubt that is very helpful to you. Why do you ask?"

She tried to find the words to explain the depths of her confusion at what happened. The stunned helplessness at Anders' tortured declarations and burning looks. How frightened she had felt when he grabbed her hand, insisting that she listen as he pleaded for her attention, her love.

When she finally escaped it was as if she couldn't make sense of anything, so she did the most irrational thing she could think of: sneak into the Chantry and hope she could find Sebastian. And now that she had, she was at a loss of what exactly she expected him to _do_ about any of it.

"And in these occasions, did you ever," she began twisting the scissors around her finger again. "Did you ever wonder if maybe you had done something or said something that made them think that maybe you had feelings that you didn't."

He shook his head. "I know myself. Sometimes people see things that aren't there because they want them so badly. I cannot be held responsible for anything but my own words and deeds."

She nodded. "You're right. It's not my fault he-" she caught herself. "It's not my fault."

"It's nobody's fault. It's just a misunderstanding." He took the scissors from her and patted her hand reassuringly.

"Yes, of course." She felt as if a great weight had lifted from her heart. "Surely he will understand."

There was a moment where Sebastian's expression darkened, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "Of course. Though, it might be a good idea to not spend so much time with him, anyway, for his own sake. It would be cruel to allow him to believe that there are possibilities that don't exist."

"That is wise. Thank you," and she turned to go. If she hadn't she wasn't sure she could be with him, so close and speaking so quietly in the dark, without doing something even more foolish and forcing him to limit his interaction with her.

"Laica," he said, "Wait."

She turned, unsure of what to expect. He handed her an acolyte robe. "I can't risk giving you one of the clean ones, I'm sorry. But you should wear this until you're off the Chantry grounds. It will help you escape notice."

"That is a good idea," she said as she pulled it over her head. "Well, how do I look? Pious? Stodgy?"

"A little of one, enough of the other," he smiled. "Until we meet again" he said, bowing with ridiculous formality.

Laica clapped a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing too loudly. "Until then, messere," she drawled, curtseying so low she almost toppled over, before turning and stealing into the shadows.


	2. Made to be Broken

To say the invitation was unexpected would be an understatement on a level with saying that Anders was occasionally moody or that Lowtown had an unpleasant odor in the summertime.

But if there's something Varric never turned down, it was an unexpected invitation. Which is how he found himself sitting down for tea in Leandra's parlor with Aveline and Sebastian.

"Would you like some tea? Perhaps a scone?" Leandra offered him some delicacies.

"Much obliged!" he said, grabbing a tart and munching with gusto. Another thing Varric never turned down: a free meal.

Aveline waved her hand, refusing any pastries. "Leandra, what is this about," she asked in a tone of concern mixed with irritation. "You know how busy I am."

"Oh," Leandra busied herself with pouring some tea for Sebastian. "I just thought it might be nice to get to catch up on old times. And get to know some of Laica's friends a little better."

Varric glanced around. There were only four seats. Leandra had summoned the three of them for a specific reason. He bided his time.

"I would like to thank you for offering such a gracious invitation, my lady," Sebastian said. Varric carefully controlled the smirk that wanted to sprawl across his face. Nobility.

"Oh," Leandra laughed. "I'm not lady anything, ser. You can call me Leandra. You, too, Varel."

"Varric," he corrected without rancor.

"Oh, yes of course. I know that she's said so much about you. So much about all of you and..." She took a deep breath and set the teapot down. "As a matter of fact, that's why I chose to invite the three of you here, today. I have a problem and I need your help."

Aveline's mouth narrowed into a thin, hard line. "Is somebody bothering you? Just say the word, Leandra, I'll have the best of my guard patrol your street. No, better than that: I'll do it personally."

"Oh, no," Leandra got up and began to pace. "Nothing so... criminal. I'm just..." she wrung her hands. "I'm so worried about my Laica and the company she keeps." She paused. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," Varric nodded.

"It's just that," Leandra continued to pace. "When we were living in Lowtown it was different. What does it matter what a refugee from some little country does with her spare time? But now she's _important_. She's reclaimed the family estate and made a name for herself. She's made so many gains. And I can't stand the thought of her... of her..." She choked back a sob.

"Leandra!" Aveline got to her feet, looking alarmed. "What could have gotten you so worked up?"

"What are these!" Leandra cried, producing a handful of pamphlets. "I keep finding them all over my daughter's house. Stuffed in books," she threw a handful on the table, "laid out on tables," she tossed another handful, "delivered in the post," and another, "and this!" She held up a half-burned bundle. "This one I found in the fireplace! Please," she turned imploring eyes to Varric. "You're a young person. What does this mean? Is it some kind of courtship ritual?"

Sebastian picked up one of the pamphlets. "Is this... Anders' manifesto?"

Leandra strangled a cry and covered her face with her hands "Yes! You must help me. Such a man will ruin my daughter and all she's worked so hard to accomplish."

"But," Varric was so confused he couldn't help but be honest. "I'm sorry, but wasn't your husband an apostate?"

"My Malcolm was _nothing _like this... this..." her chest heaved as she struggled to control her temper. "Person," she finished, snarling the word in such a way as to make it the most vile insult Varric had ever heard.

"My lad- Leandra," Sebastian said gently. "Please. Surely it cannot be so dire as you're imagining."

"He's over here all the time!" she exploded as she resumed her pacing. "And when he's not, she's wandering off with him. Maybe you've spent too much time in the Chantry, ser, but I have born three children! I know what the looks he's giving her mean."

Sebastian nodded and tented his fingers, frowning thoughtfully. "True, but unless she _returns_ such looks, it cannot be such a worry, can it?"

Leandra wrung her hands. "It doesn't matter. If her reputation is ruined anyway, I'll never be able to arrange a good match for her."

Varric choked on a biscuit. "Arranged match? Laica?"

Leandra straightened her shoulders. "We're respectable people, Varric. We must behave like it."

"But, with all due respect," he coughed around a bit of cookie still lodged in his throat. "Laica's never shown the least bit of interest in getting married."

"That's another problem," Leandra sighed as she eased back into her chair. "And an even more difficult one to deal with.

"Perhaps I could be of service," Sebastian offered. "Laica's often confided in me for advice on..." he cleared his throat, "personal matters."

Aveline glanced over at Varric at exactly the same time as Varric glanced over at her. And then Aveline shook her head slightly while rolling her eyes.

"She also has taken up an interest in archery," Sebastian continued, oblivious. "In fact, we were going to practice together tomorrow. Perhaps I could broach the subject with her then?"

"Oh, would you?" Leandra gushed. "She's so stubborn with me! But maybe you could get through to her. I have a number of good families who have been enquiring about courting possibilities. If she would only consent to them."

"I shall try my best," Sebastian promised.

"You'll need better than that," deadpanned Aveline.

"Yeah, make sure to polish Andraste all bright and shiny," Varric quipped. "Divine intervention may be your best bet."

* * *

It was on a rare autumn morning, clear and bright and brisk with no hint of mist, that Sebastian decided to to broach the subject of Laica's matrimonial obligations. It had been weeks since he promised Leandra he would do it, but the right opportunity had never seemed to present itself. As Leandra's letters to him became more and more concerned and eventually turned into visits, he decided to err on the side of rashness and _create_ a right opportunity.

Laica met him in the templar training yard, as was her wont. He had tried to convince her to change their practice area to a more neutral location, but it was all in vain. "Just let them try me," she laughed whenever he brought it up. She also scoffed at his appeals that her presence was needlessly antagonistic. To her credit, she never used magic while on Chantry property, and always made certain to greet templars she was fond of, like Ser Cullen and Ser Thrask, often enquiring after her brother's progress. And he couldn't help but admire her fearlessness, as if she were walking into a nursery and not a lion's den.

An hour passed in pleasant conversation, like it usually did, Laica pressing for details on how the current scandal among the Revered Mothers was progressing, Sebastian deflecting her giggling inquiries and prodding her for stories about her own adventures.

Gradually conversation died as Laica began to concentrate on more difficult shots. Soon, she would tire too much to continue, and his window would close. "Now or never," he muttered to himself as he knocked an arrow to his bow.

"What's that?" Laica asked, squinting at the bull's-eye, a good many yards away.

"You know," Sebastian began his carefully-prepared speech, "sexual congress is a gift from the Maker."

He waited for her response (he expected her to agree, of course) but was surprised when he was met only with silence. He let the arrow fly and watched it as it hit somewhere to the southeast of his target. "Blast," he cursed before turning to her, thinking maybe she hadn't heard him.

He was met with a pair of deep-blue eyes, wide with shock. He suddenly realized his error. "Within the bounds of holy matrimony, I mean to say," he quickly recovered.

"Yes," Laica turned her head slightly, but continued staring at him out of the corner of her eye. "What else could it be."

"There are some who believe that the Chantry frowns on physical expressions of love," he said, continuing with what he had planned to say. "Hold a moment," he paused her as she knocked her arrow, and stood alongside her, raising her elbow slightly. "There, that's better." He stepped back. "Proceed."

She drew her arrow and aimed. "All I remember from Chantry school is the word 'Don't' whenever the topic came up."

He shook his head and frowned. "This particular error in catechism seems especially pernicious in Fereldan teachings. But, truly, It is a sacred thing, evidence of the Maker's love for His children. It allows us to express more fully than words our love for one another."

Laica's shot went wild. "You really need to focus," he tutted at her. 'This won't get any easier as we progress."

She glared at him. "I don't imagine it will."

"You ought to try that again. I'll wait for my turn," he said, observing her stance as she knocked another arrow.

"Furthermore, without marital relations, so to speak, how would we propagate the faith? Produce heirs? There are many practical considerations that go along with it as well, beyond the compelling emotional and physical benefits."

This time, Laica's shot went so wild that she nearly hit a group of recruits that Ser Cullen was training on the other side of the yard. "Hey, be careful!" he shouted.

"Sorry," she shouted back and bit her lip. "That won't leave a permanent scar, will it?" she asked Sebastian, concern clear on her face.

Sebastian glanced back at the clutch of recruits who had gathered around the one who had been grazed by the stray arrow. "I'm sure he'll be just fine," he tried to reassure her.

"You're a bad liar," she sighed.

"It's only a flesh wound," he repeated with more conviction, as he watched Ser Cullen help the boy to his feet and tie a bandage around his head.

Laica just frowned and concentrated on knocking another arrow. "Third time's a charm," she muttered, drawing it back.

"Hold again," he paused her, and stepped closer than before, crouching slightly and leaning his head against hers to try to suss out the problem. "Your aim appears to be true, but... Laica, are you unwell?"

"I'm fine," she said, jaw setting stubbornly.

"But you're trembling!" And he realized, to his dismay, that her face was flushed. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Are you quite sure you haven't come down with a fever?

"I'm fine!" she repeated, flushing harder and turning away. "Really!" She twisted out of his grasp. "I just... I have to go!"

He watched her run from the practice yard, baffled. "What could be troubling her, I wonder?" he mused to Cullen as the Templar returned the stray arrow.

"If you're looking for advice on how to understand Amells, you're asking the wrong man," Cullen said as he handed Sebastian the arrow with a rueful grin.

* * *

Laica drank the whiskey in one gulp and slammed her cup down on the bar. "Yes, that is _exactly _what he said," she insisted.

Isabela started to laugh. Soft at first, then with rapidly increasing mirth. "What in the Void did he mean by all that?" She laughed even harder, and wiped away a tear.

"I'll be Blighted if I know," Laica said grimly. "Barkeep? Here," she threw a few silver on the bar. "Just leave the bottle."

Isabela took a deep breath and tried to control the peals of laughter that still bubbled inside her. "A gift from the Maker, eh?" she snickered.

"Yeah, and one he's marked 'Return to Sender'," Laica quipped grimly, now drinking straight from the bottle.

Isabela choked on her drink. "Oh save me," she gasped. "I have liquor coming up my nose!"

"I mean, let's be honest," Laica took another swig. "The man's made any number of vows, some of them directly conflicting with each other. Why is _chastity _the one he's taking seriously!"

"I'm serious my nose really burns!" Isabela half-laughed, half-moaned.

"Look I thought we were talking about my _burning loins _here," Laica declared angrily. "Not your inflamed nasal passages!"

"Oh please," Isabela rolled her eyes. "It's your own fault for falling for a man who won't rut you."

"I didn't try to," Laica frowned miserably.

"Well, you know what I always say," Isabela said brightly. "The best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else!"

"Fine. Whatever," Laica took another drink. "What difference does it make. Just so long as it's not Anders."

"Don't be ridiculous," Isabela scoffed. "Hm, let's see. You like men, right?"

"Yeah," Laica responded, feeling even more despondent.

"Well, how about that one," Isabela gestured to an Orlesian in the corner. "He's been eyeing you up all night. And he's got red hair. That should help!"

Laica looked over. He wasn't bad-looking, at least. Maybe Isabela was right. "Sounds good." She grasped her bottle and stomped over to the man like she was going to battle an ogre. "You!" she pointed at the man. "What's your name?"

The man laughed a bit nervously and exchanged disbelieving glances with his friends. "I am Luc," he introduced himself. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name."

"Laica," she replied flatly, fighting the feelings of awkwardness that started to steal into her alcohol-fogged brain. "Let's go," she grabbed his arm and started pulling him to go upstairs.

"If my lady insists," he said with over-the-top enthusiasm.

She made it two steps inside the room before he was on her. Hands and lips and legs and everything was just _wrong_. He was too tall, his voice too rough, his accent wrong and his hair was the right color but not curly enough and he didn't smell like incense and armor polish and she was starting to cry anyway and that was just embarrassing. "I'm sorry," she gasped, pushing him off of her. "This was a mistake."

"Pardon?" Luc looked at her in bleary confusion. "Did I displease you somehow? I can do better, I guarantee." He smiled and stretched enticingly.

"No, you can't." She covered her mouth with her hand to fight the tears. "You can have the whiskey."

She handed him the bottle as a final parting gift and ran out of the room. And then ran out of the tavern and all the way back to Hightown.

* * *

The front door slammed, jarring Leandra awake. "Malcolm!" she said sharply, still half asleep.

She heard footsteps stumbling quickly up the stairs as she realized that she was in her family's old estate in Kirkwall, and not the small farmhouse she had been dreaming about. Turning over on her side, she tried to shake the melancholy that tended to follow such dreams.

She had nearly fallen back asleep when she was awoken again, this time by her eldest child sobbing. Sighing, she climbed out of bed and tied on a robe.

"Laica," she said gently as she entered the room. "Where have you been? The sun's been down for hours. You know how dangerous it is to be out at night."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Laica quickly wiped her eyes and turned her pillow over, trying to hide the evidence. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, it's too late for that," Leandra grumbled, sitting on the side of the bed. "What is wrong," she said, more gently, smoothing Laica's hair from her brow.

"Nothing that can be helped," Laica said curling into a ball of unhappiness.

Leandra knew that look. She had seen it in her own mirror long before she had seen it in her daughters' faces. The girl was lovesick. "Did Anders say something to you," she asked, her distaste for the man impossible to hide.

"No," Laica shied away from her. "Nobody said anything I'm fine just leave me alone."

"As you wish," Leandra replied in a perfectly neutral tone as she got up to leave.

"I wish I wasn't a mage," Laica wailedcried, tears beginning anew. "I wish there was no Chantry. I wish there were no... no stupid _vows_." The last word flung from her lips as if it were the vilest epithet in all of Thedas.

And then certain things began to fall into place for Leandra. She had gravely misjudged the target of Laica's dreamy looks and giggles with Merrill and Isabela. The focus of her affection was not on the broody apostate Leandra had such little use for, but instead it had landed upon the sweet but clueless priest. "Oh," was all she could say as more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "You know, I always thought that man was wasted on the Chantry."

Laica covered her face with a pillow and screamed in frustration. She lifted the pillow off her face. "He started talking to me today about the sanctity of intercourse within the bonds of holy matrimony," she said emotionlessly. "Why would he do that? Is he _trying _to torture me? I thought he was nice!"

"Oh, darling," Leandra cooed, trying to fight the wave of guilt that threatened to engulf her at how seriously her plan had gone awry. "I can't imagine he'd do that. He doesn't seem the type."

"He is the type to make stupid vows and then stupidly keep them. I swear, he's the only member of the clergy who takes that stuff seriously," Laica pouted, hugging the pillow to her chest.

"You know I made a vow when I was sixteen," Leandra said gently, stroking Laica's hair. "I swore I would never fall in love with any man."

"Why did you do that?" Laica asked, brows knitted in confusion.

"Oh, I can't remember his name. Some boy who had broken my heart," Leandra smiled. It was odd, after all these years she could still remember so many things. The smell of the apple blossoms in the night garden, the feel of his mouth on hers, the thudding of her heart as he reached into her bodice. But she couldn't remember his name. How odd. "The point is, I was very serious about it. And I had every intention of marrying the Comte de Launcet. It would have pleased my parents, and he was nice enough."

"But you didn't," Laica sniffled.

Leandra reached into her sleeve and handed her a handkerchief. "No, I didn't. Because I met your father. And he convinced me to break my vow."

Laica was quiet, her breathing calmed and sniffles died down. Just when Leandra was sure she had drifted off to sleep, Laica finally spoke.

"Mother, just so we're clear: you are actually advocating that I attempt to sleep with a priest," she stated, deadly serious.

Leandra smiled. "I'm advocating that you follow your heart," she said. "Maybe you'll help him find his in the process."

She left Laica to ponder this (or sleep off the liquor that was stinking up the room) and made sure to grab the latest delivery of the Manifesto on her way out.

.

.

.

.

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* * *

A/N Special thanks to NuitNuit for the fabulous beta job! Also, for those of you interested in this story: I know where I'm going with it, now. I will explain more in the next chapter ; )


	3. Good Intentions

Laica was alone in the mausoleum. The chill from the cold stone walls and the bench was matched only by the cold numbness that had been sitting in her belly for the last few weeks. She sat on the bench facing the internment niche that held her mother's bones. The unending waves of guilt and self-recrimination beating inside her like a raging sea.

"Laica," someone said softly, and she started at the sound of Sebastian's voice.

"Oh, excuse me," she said, self-consciously wiping her tears. "I didn't know anyone... I'm sorry, I'll be going."

"What are you apologizing for?" he asked taking her hand to prevent her leaving as he sat next to her on the bench. "This is your family's mausoleum. I should be apologizing to you for intruding. In fact, if you'd like me to leave I will. I just wanted to..." and he fell quiet.

She sat, her hand in his, wondering what he was going to say. To find her? To save her from herself? No. To help his friend recover from her grief. Because she was his friend, and he was hers, and it was part of his duties as an ordained priest. It was as simple as that. That's all it would ever be.

He was still holding her hand. She liked the feel of his skin against hers, the heat that passed between them. She tried to memorize the feel of his callouses, gently ran her thumb over his carefully-trimmed fingernails, felt the strength of his fingers. It was all she could expect to know of his body and she was unwilling to let the moment pass without taking everything she could from it.

She began to shiver. "Laica," he said, concern clear in his voice. "Your hands are ice, how long have you been down here?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I was hoping to find, I don't know. Some peace maybe? But..." she shook her head.

He gripped her hand tighter, placing the other on top and Laica was embarrassed to feel the heat of a blush rise to her face. Over _handholding_, of all things. "Laica," he said. "This isn't you. You are not one who finds peace in a sepulcher contemplating dusty remains."

She thought on this a while. "You're right," she said finally. "Would you..." She bit her lip, suddenly afraid of his refusal. Afraid of his being forced to limit their interaction. "I have a garden just outside the city limits. I think it might help to go there. Would you mind coming with me? It's ok if you don't, I can ask-"

"I'd be honored," he interrupted, helping her to her feet.

She felt a sense of relief as they left the mausoleum, as if her burden was suddenly halved.

* * *

It was cold for a spring day, but the exertion of climbing up the hill behind the city soon got the blood flowing. The closer they got to the summit, the more alive Laica appeared. Her head rose, her eyes started to sparkle and her gait began to recover its customary lightness.

Sometimes he wished, for his own sake, that she didn't wear mage robes. While perfectly modest, they seemed to hug her body in a way that made him keenly aware of all he had foresworn. And the robes she happened to be wearing today were a lovely shade of lavender, with gold piping that seemed to be designed to highlight everywhere a person might want to touch a woman.

He knew he should have put an end to this a long time ago, especially now that he had decided to remain a priest. Laica clearly had feelings for him that he could not return. Try though she may, she never was able to completely explain away her flimsy reasons to spend time with him, or hide the lingering glances when she thought he wasn't paying attention, or hide the blushes when he caught her.

But, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he didn't stop her because he didn't want to. He enjoyed just being near her. He told himself that was all he wanted, that he was content with an especially close friendship. He had to be.

But he still held the feeling of her hand in his. He had memorized every detail like it was a newly-discovered stanza of the Chant and only he had the text.

They had reached the top of the hill and he paused a moment, stunned. "You did all this?" he asked.

"Yes. My father taught us how to farm back in Lothering. Proper arable land is very dear out here. I never had enough to spare for more than a half-acre, and even then I had to import topsoil from Highever. The soil here is barely more than sand. But, well, here is the result." She shrugged.

It was neatly penned with a hand-built stone wall that rose to about his hip. Two apple trees stood at the far end of the garden, with a winding gravel path leading from the gate to the bench between them. Carefully trimmed hedges covered in pink buds ringed the inside of the wall, with flower beds nestled between them, crocuses opening to the sun that had broken through the clouds, daffodils bobbing their heads in the cool breeze. "It's astonishing," was all he could say.

She flushed with pride and looked down sheepishly. "Father would say it was silly of me to plant just flowers and no practical things like cabbages or turnips." She sighed. "But Kirkwall is so... grey and stony. I wanted somewhere more, oh I don't know, somewhere that felt real to me."

"This feels real to you?" he asked, still not quite believing it as they started down the path. The heady scent of daffodils enveloped him. "If you weren't here with me, I'd think this was made by the faeries."

"You're always so _kind_," she smiled. "I suppose all I see are the flaws."

"Surely there are none," he insisted. "This is a jewel of horticulture."

"Listen to you," she giggled. "Oh wait!" She pressed a hand to his chest to halt him and he had to stop himself from grabbing her wrist and kissing her, so complete was his intoxication. But she moved away too quickly, and he thought to add an extra prayer of gratitude to Andraste for saving him from himself.

"The Andraste's Grace," she breathed, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. "It bloomed! Come, look." She motioned to him as she crouched behind a boulder on the northern side of the path.

In the shadow cast by the stone was a sudden proliferation of flowers, a cloud of tiny white blossoms tinged with the lightest shade of pink that gradually deepened into a rosy blush at the base. "Lean closer," she urged him. "The best thing about Andraste's Grace is the scent."

He knelt on the gravel and bent his head over the flowers, and was rewarded with a scent so light and sweet as he had never before known. "What is this?" he marvelled, stroking the soft petals. "Where did you find them?"

She sat back on her heels, laughter pealing like a bell. "These are common as fleas back in Lothering. Or they were, before the Blight," she said more soberly. "Oh, but how Bethany loved them. Come spring, she'd always make crowns of them and make me wear one with her." Her smile turned sad. "It was so hard to find a way to grow these up here. It's too warm and sunny. Andraste's Grace thrives in the places where it's needed."

Sebastian felt a rush of affection at her words, feelings he had long denied himself. His thoughts jumped wildly from the perfectly innocent companionship they were experiencing in reality, to a fantasy of making love to this remarkable woman on a bed of flowers just like these.

He had to focus. "Who's Bethany? Was she a friend of yours in Ferelden?"

Laica's smiled disappeared completely, and the hollow sorrow returned. "I've never mentioned her to you?" she asked, and stood without waiting for an answer.

"No," he answered as he got up to follow her, reluctantly leaving the flowers. "Why? Should you have?"

"Bethany was my sister," she said as she sat on the bench, shoulders slumped. "Carver's twin. She was killed when we fled Lothering. An ogre," she turned ashen at the memory.

He sat down next to her. "I am sorry I never got the chance to meet her," he said, at a loss.

"She would have adored you," Laica said simply. "She was a gentle girl, and happy. And beautiful. And so young. I couldn't save her, just like I couldn't save my mother." She pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket to wipe away her tears. "At least I could give mother a proper funeral. We couldn't carry Bethany with us, so we just left her there." The tears began to flow in earnest. "That's why I planted her flowers. It was the best I could do."

He paused a moment, wrestling with his conscience. In the end, he decided the Maker would not want him to let his friend suffer, and so he held her in his arms as she wept. His heart broke for her, knowing all too well what she had lost.

"What's the point of being a Champion of anything, anyway," she sobbed. "I can't even protect my own kin."

He leaned away and held her face in his hands, brushing her tears away with his thumbs. "What's the point of being a priest or a prince," he said simply. "I could not protect mine, either."

"Yes," she said, "you do understand."

He was possessed by a wild urge to kiss her, but her mouth twisted in anger and she pushed away from him. "My mother is dead because nobody is paying attention to what is going on in Kirkwall outside the Gallows. This city needs a leader," she said firmly, as she got to her feet and stared down at Kirkwall. "A real one. Dumar was a fool who nearly led us to war. Knight-Commander Meredith has no business filling the role of viscount, and is leading us to an even bigger disaster, I can feel it. It is wrong for the Chantry to be embroiled in politics."

"You are right," Sebastian agreed with equal conviction. "To meddle in the political realm poisons us."

She clenched her fists. "I could do it, if they'd only let me. I'm not native-born, but my family has been nobility here for generations." She kicked a stone in frustration. "All they see is _magic_. If there was only some way to get around that. To get them to see past it." She growled in frustration. "But not even preventing a war with the Qunari was enough. So long as I can do this," she twirled a fireball in her fingers before tossing it over the garden wall at a pile of stone. "That's all I'll ever be."

He was quiet a moment, trying to calm his inner turmoil as she paced, fists opening and closing, magic sparking at her fingertips. "What if you were to marry," he suggested.

"Argh!" She cried, throwing her hands up. "Don't even start. You sound like my mother!"

"I assure you, I am quite serious," he insisted, standing up and going to her. "If you could find a match with somebody influential enough, it might be just what you need to put yourself in a position where you can make that leap."

She whipped around and stared at him, "Leap?" was all she said.

"Yes," he answered, a little confused. "Why, what does that mean?"

"Nothing," she answered, turning away. "It's just that... somebody else said that to me a long time ago. It's nothing. Anyway. Who among the nobility in this city is influential enough to overrule Meredith? And why isn't he ruling now anyway?"

"What about the royalty of another city?" he said, thinking aloud. "Ansburg has an unmarried prince. As does Markham."

She pressed her hands to her temples. "I don't even know their names," she said, sounding overwhelmed. "And besides, why would they want me? They'll just see me as damaged goods, like everybody else. The best my mother was ever able to dredge up was the son of the former viscount's seneschal."

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. "What about Starkhaven."

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed. "I'm not marrying your cousin."

Of course, that was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment. But she was right. He had even less clout to offer her than the son of a headless viscount's seneschal. And he realized that what he wanted to say, to propose such a marriage to _him_, was woefully rash. He was still unsure as to whether or not he actually wanted to retake the city or remain an ordained priest.

She looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion at his silence, eyes searching his face for an explanation.

"I need, "he said, more to himself than to her, "to be somewhere I can think clearly," Which was not here, not in this garden. This oasis she had willed into existence on the bare rock, this thing of beauty that existed because _she_ existed, and there she was, right in front of him, staring at him with eyes so blue he could get lost in them forever.

"Then go," she said, pulling out of his grasp. "What are you waiting for?"

And before he had a chance to think about it, before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, before he had a chance to remember his vows and who he was disappointing and what he was abandoning, he took her in his arms once more and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and her hair silk as he ran his fingers through it. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed her body to his, feeling the warmth of her skin and the swell of her breasts pressing against him. At first, her body went rigid with surprise, but then she moaned softly and melted against him. She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him even closer, and he could feel in her kiss the years of denied desire, pent up and yearning for release.

He broke away from her. He had to, or he would have fulfilled the earlier fantasy right then and there.

"What was that for," she asked, clearly even more confused then before.

"I have to make some decisions," he replied. "And I dislike making them on incorrect assumptions. If you'll excuse me," he nodded a goodbye before turning and heading back to the city to go to the Chantry.

Once way or another, he was going to make his own fate.

* * *

Laica sat cross-legged on an empty cot in the clinic, tuning her lute, fiddling with the frets and leaning close to listen as she strummed softly. Anders was washing out potion bottles and carefully sorting them by the labels on the stoppers.

The lute tuned to her satisfaction, Laica began strumming a song. "_Step ye gaily on we go, heel for heel and toe for toe..._" she sang brightly.

"You shouldn't be here," Anders interrupted her sullenly.

"People say that to me a lot," she answered cheekily. "Makes me feel unwelcome." She strummed for emphasis and then continued. "_Arm in arm and row and row, All for Mhairi's wedding..._"

"No, it's not like that," he frowned. "It's just not safe here. The templars have raided me the last two times I've been out with you. Next time they might not wait until I'm gone."

"What do you think they're going to do? Drag the Champion into the Gallows? Have her brother guard her cell? Not even Meredith is so foolish. Face it, you're safer when I'm here," she winked before continuing her song. "_Over hill-way up and down, murtle green and bracken brown..._ Besides. I like it here."

"I can't imagine why," Anders laughed with genuine mirth. "Surely it smells better upstairs."

"Maybe. But it's... too quiet," she said, her eyes darkening in a way that twisted in his chest. "_Past the shieling through the town, all for Mhairi's wedding..._"

"Fine," he muttered and turned back to his work. "You know what's always bustling this time of night? The Chantry."

A pillow thunked him on the side of the head and he nearly knocked over his bottles. "Hey!"

"That was mean and you know it," she pouted. "_Plenty herring plenty meal, plenty peat tae fill her creel..._"

"Why are you singing in that ridiculous accent," he demanded, pounding his fist on table.

"Because the song doesn't sound right without it," she replied haughtily. "_Plenty bonny bairns as weel..._"

"The people of Kirkwall should be made aware of what an abominably cruel tease their Champion is," he glowered. "Does this bring you some kind of pleasure? The kind you can't get from your _precious_ Sebastian?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you being so disagreeable?"

"You come here, knowing how I feel about you, and about him, and about your inexplicable fascination with the man, and then you proceed to sing songs about all the 'plenty bonny bairns' you want him to 'feel yer creel' with," he ranted, temper rising.

"You don't put _bairns_ in a _creel_, Anders! What kind of a monster does that?" she exclaimed, eyes wide. "Are you sure your spirit friend is really Justice, and not the Spirit of Baby Burning?"

He crossed his arms. "You're my friend, and I'm fine with that being all there is between us." And that was a lie, and he could feel Justice pounding inside his skull, punishing him for this transgression. But telling the truth would mean an end to her visits, and that wasn't something he was willing to face. "I just have one request: no acting like a lovesick girl and mooning about. I don't think that's too much to ask."

"Fine," she said. And proceeded to strum a minor key. "Shall I sing a different song?"

"Please," he replied, getting up to find a crate to store the bottles in. "And nothing else about weddings."

"_Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing..._" she intoned, a devilish twinkle in her eye. "_For the love of one's country is a terrible thing..._"

"Dalish songs?" He shook his head. "It's an improvement, at least. Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?"

She paused in her singing. "I have no plans. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing important." Another lie, but since Justice approved of the goals, he was not punished for it. "I was just going to make a potion and I could use some help getting the ingredients..."

* * *

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Ok so what is going on with this: I have at least 3 more scenes I want to write. One is... um... pretty smutty so that might end up being it's own thing so I can keep the rating at T on this. Also, I'm involved in a pretty big fic project on lj called the Bioware Bang and I needed to come up with a story I could write that would be at least 10k. So, I'm going to be writing a post-game fic about these two. However, according to the big bang rules I can't post it until I get my assigned posting date in July. So look for it then! I'm glad you guys are enjoying it :D


	4. Bloody Cute

A year after arriving in Kirkwall, Laica was still uncomfortable in all the sunlight. It just felt unnatural, to have days and days of blue skies and bright sun that bleached her hair and whitewashed the stone walls of the city.

Every morning she and Carver emerged from Gamlen's house, she would glance over at him to see him squinting in confusion at the sky. It brought her some measure of comfort. Carver hadn't gotten used to it, either.

She never remembered what she was doing in the Chantry's courtyard in Hightown at that time of day. She couldn't ever remember if she were coming or going, what her plans had been or who had proposed them.

In fact, when she went back to look in her diary later this was all she had written:

_More bloody errands. I think Hubert shorted me. Lousy, sleazy scumbag. Too useful to kill. Nearly have enough to go in on the expedition._

_Met a very angry priest today. Angry and rich, judging from the armor. Going to kill some people for him. Hope he didn't take poverty as one of his vows and thus can pay up._

Whatever the reason, _she_ was there when _he_ was there. And nothing was ever the same after that.

* * *

Laica glanced from the irate Grand Cleric to the furious priest and waited for her chance. "Can we get a move on?" Anders asked, a hint of anxiety creeping in his voice. "I'm feeling... exposed."

"Sh!" Laica waved him off irritably. The sun glinted off of the priest's armor, stinging her eyes. "Maker's Breath what kind of clergy goes around kitted out like _that _anyway?" she grumbled. And then looked again. Because as ridiculous as the armor was, the man wearing it was, quite possibly, the most attractive man she had ever seen. And there was no sin in _looking_.

"Stay focused, Hawke," teased Isabela. "Don't get distracted by the scenery."

"A rich one," Varric smirked. "And if you're quick, you'll snatch up that post he's trying to make on the board before they do," and he cocked his head toward a raggedy-looking group of Rivaini mercs on the other side of the courtyard.

Laica glanced over and made eye contact with their runner. He looked quick, but probably not as fast as her. Not many people were. She crouched slightly, easing her weight forward and shaking her arms loose. "I can beat him," she assured Varric.

The priest spun on his heel and stalked away, shoulders tight with anger and head held high. The Grand Cleric shook her head sadly and began to walk away from the board. Laica saw her opening and made a dash for it.

But Laica had made a grave error.

The priest wasn't finished with what he had to say, and turned back just in time for Laica to slam into him at full speed.

There was a resounding _CLANG!_ as her face smashed into his breastplate and she crumpled to the ground.

"Sweet Andraste! Are you hurt, miss?" the priest reached for her, heedless of the sizable blood smear on his armor and the additional blood gushing out of her nose.

"I, uh..." Laica tried to blink the stars out of her eyes.

"What was she doing, running through the courtyard like that?" wondered the Grand Cleric, also bending over her.

The Rivaini was running for the Chanter's board. "That man," Laica pointed. "He's after me! He's trying to hurt me!"

"Templars!" the priest yelled to a clutch of knights to the north end. "Arrest that man!" He turned back to Laica. "I apologize, young lady," he said, extending a hand and helping her up. "But I cannot stay."

"Sebastian," the Grand Cleric said in a weary tone. "This will only lead to more pain."

"I said I cannot stay," he repeated, eyes glinting stonily.

"Yeah, uh, neither can I..." Laica slipped away and made for the Chanter's board before either noticed. "Sod it all," she muttered, searching the fliers and leaving bloody fingerprints all over the board, much to the Chanter's dismay. "Where did it go?"

"Come on, Hawke," Isabela handed her the posting with a wink. "Good job on the distraction. It's enouraging to know you're the sort to sacrifice your nose in the name of good coin."

* * *

"Ow!" Laica hissed as Anders lightly pressed the bridge of her nose with his fingers.

"Oh, come off it, you big baby," Carver chided. "he barely touched you." For all her talk, Laica was the whiniest person Carver had ever known. If he had broken his nose, he wouldn't even have bothered to go to Anders. He would have just rubbed some elfroot on it and called it a day.

She pouted. "I'm very tender in that area right now, thank you very much."

"Well, that much is understandable," Anders said as he gently wiped the dried blood from her face. "I'll have to keep your brilliant strategy in mind next time I'm fighting Templars, by the way. Did you actually manage to crack his breastplate? Or did your face come out the only loser in that skirmish?"

"Well, I got a good bloodstain on him, at any rate," Laica grimaced as Anders covered her face with his hand and began healing her. "But he wasn't a Templar," she said into his palm. "He was a priest."

"What?" Anders asked, smiling sickeningly. Carver fussed with his arm braces. It was always awkward to watch men try to flirt with his sister. "Are they arming priests now? What for?"

Laica shrugged. "Don't know. But he wants us to kill people and he's willing to pay for it."

Anders frowned as he finished up. "Mages, I wager."

"Nope," Laica shrugged. "Mercs. Some kind of family dispute, I didn't ask too many questions."

"Especially not what you wanted to ask," Carver sneered, going for the soft spot.

"Shut up, Carver!" Laica threw a pillow at him.

Carver grinned and went for the kill. "Oh, Father Whatawaste what a nice day for a stroll," he said in an exaggeratedly feminine tone. "Shall we go to your place or mind, Brother Blue Eyes?"

"I hate you," Laica growled, reaching for a stone.

"No fighting in the Clinic!" Anders declared, flashing blue for a moment and stretching out his hands.

It always frightened Carver when he did that, and he bowed his head, somewhat cowed.

But the blue light didn't totally fade away. "I hope you know what you're doing, Laica," Anders said as he angrily washed his hands. "Because arcane and ordained don't exactly make the best pairs."

"I really wish the two of you would just leave me alone about this," Laica crossed her arms, equally angry. "It's just a job. I get lots of jobs. That's what's keeping us all fed. The only thing I'm interested in from that man is his _money_."

"He must have been carrying quite a purse on his arse, then," Carver quipped, unable to help himself.

"Carver Horatio Hawke so help me I'm going-" Laica glanced back at Anders as he began to glow brighter. "I'm going to walk you home and tuck you in like the darling boy you are," she finished in a sugary-sweet tone.

"But I don't-" Carver began to protest.

"Just keep walking, my dear _dear_ brother," she said in an ominous tone as she dragged him out of the clinic.

* * *

Merrill shifted uncomfortably. She never could understand the human compulsion to kneel while praying. Why their Maker demanded stiff joints and a sore back remained an impenetrable mystery. "Will we be here very much longer?" she asked Laica.

"Shh! You're supposed to be praying!" Laica hissed in a whisper.

"Oh." Merrill whispered back. "Do I have to? I'm not much for praying in a Chantry..." she looked around the ostentatious building. How could anybody feel close to the divine in something so unnatural? "Do you think anybody would mind if I just pretended?"

"No, that's fine. Pretend all you want," Laica whispered before bowing her head. "Oh Sweet Bride of the Maker give me strength..."

"You know," Isabela said, eyes twinkling in that way they always did right before she said something Merrill found baffling. "Usually when I'm on my knees this long I'm doing something a bit more entertaining."

"Please don't," Laica groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I really don't need to be thinking about that... sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" Merrill asked. The Keeper always said the only foolish question was the one that went unasked. "Usually when I'm on my knees I'm scrubbing the floor. Or sweeping ashes out of the fireplace. Or trying to find my socks. I really wish I could find my socks my toes have been so cold lately."

"It's not..." Isabela sighed. "Let's wait until we're out of the chantry, eh Kitten? Then I'll explain it to you."

Laica clasped her hands together. "Oh Maker if you could just strike me blind for a few moments that would be very helpful..."

"It's just another job, Hawke," Aveline said in a calm tone behind from her seat in the pew behind them. "You did the work, you tell him, you get paid. Simple as that."

"Yeah, simple as that," Laica repeated. "And he won't think I'm stupid for breaking my nose on his armor?"

"Oh no," Isabela said emphatically. "Not at all! He might even throw in a little extra for your trouble." And then she winked.

"You're not making this easier," Laica glowered.

"Why would that make it harder?" Merrill asked. "I think a little extra would be lovely."

"If the little extra _was_ harder then all her problems would be solved," Isabela snickered. "Though I might be underestimating how much extra he can afford, if that belt buckle is an indication."

"Shut up," Aveline scolded them. "Unless you want to spend all day in here."

"Fine," Laica hissed. "He's done with the candles. I'm going." She took a deep breath, stood up, straightened her shoulders and slowly made her way to the priest. She walked stiffly, her knees must have been sore as well.

Merrill watched as Laica made her way to the red haired man she had been watching so intently. He was nice looking, she supposed. For a human. Merrill couldn't find much all that attractive about humans. They just looked so clumsy. Like oxen that decided one day that they wanted to walk upright.

Laica was twirling her hair around a finger and laughing nervously. The man cocked his head to the side, quizzical, and said something Merrill couldn't quite make out. He then handed Laica something and walked away.

Laica turned around, shoulders slumped, looking slightly dazed. "Oh," Isabela said sorrowfully. "Damn."

"That's going to smart," Aveline said grimly.

"What will? Did he not pay her?" Merrill asked. The only foolish question...

"Let's get out of here," Laica said sadly when she got back to the pew. "Chantries are boring."

Isabela linked arms with Laica as they left. "Is he very stupid, then? The bruise you left on his chest hasn't had time to fade yet."

Laica shrugged. "I guess maybe without all the blood I look different."

* * *

For most of his life early life, Sebastian had felt like he was spinning aimlessly. There was no purpose to his existence. He was an afterthought. An unwanted and useless extra to the roles already determined for his brothers.

His solution to this sense of meaningless was to seek oblivion in drink and sex. Which was diverting, to be certain. But as his debauchery took on a life of its own and led him to even greater excesses, he slowly became aware that he was not simply spinning in place. He was circling downward.

Somehow, through the efforts of others and eventually himself (despite his best efforts), he found a reason to exist in the Chantry. There he could be of _use_ to somebody. There he was able to conquer his demons and set his mind right. There he discovered a peace he had never even considered a possibility. And while the sacrifices he had to make in order to achieve that peace were harsh, in the end it seemed a small price to regain his mind, his soul, and his self-respect.

The Chantry became the axis on which his whole life revolved. Constrained, constant, and composed. But then one day he received word of his family's cruel slaughter, and that world tilted on its axis. And in trying to set it right, he met _her_. And she ripped the axis out completely.

* * *

"Was that Hawke you were just speaking to?" Ser Thrask asked him as Sebastian was on his way back to his quarters.

"Who?" he asked, looking around the empty hall. "Oh, you mean the woman? Was that her name?"

"Yes," Thrask nodded. "Laica Hawke. She had helped me with some personal problems recently. I had hoped to thank her. Do you know where she went?"

His mind was still racing from the revelation that he no longer had to fear the assassins. He barely even remembered what he had said to the woman. Had he even paid her? He hoped he had. "I'm sorry... I... I don't think she mentioned."

"Ah, no matter. I'm sure she'll be around," Thrask smiled fondly. "She always seems to pop up when you need her most." He turned to leave.

"Ser Thrask," Sebastian stopped him. "You know this woman well?"

Thrask shrugged. "She helped me a great deal when she didn't need to, and when it probably would have been in her own best interests to turn away. I've never sat down to supper with her but in my estimation she's one of the best people in Kirkwall. Why?"

Sebastian thought a moment. What did he want to ask? Her eyes haunted him. They had held an expression of such hopefulness when she began speaking with him, but by the end of their conversation she turned away with such despondence that he couldn't help but feel guilty. "Did she ever seem like she expected something of you? And that you had somehow failed her?"

Thrask knitted his brows. "I'm sorry, but I can't say that I have had that sort of interaction with her."

"Oh," Sebastian nodded. "Perhaps I imagined it."

"I'm sure you did," Thrask said, smiling and clapping him on the back. "How could anybody be disappointed in you?"

"You're too kind," Sebastian excused himself to pack.

That night, and many nights following, his dreams were haunted by a woman with deep blue eyes that held no end of sorrow. And nothing was ever the same after that.

* * *

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A/N: thanks to the darling Xogs for the beta!


	5. I Don't Know Any Colleen

The minute Cullen walked into the estate, he knew he was out of his element. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, really, when Laica handed him the engraved invitation with exuberant promises of a "really good time!"

In all honesty, he should have declined. He had recognized her as an apostate the minute he met her, and fraternizing with the girl would surely lead to all sorts of problems if Meredith ever found out.

But still, there was something that kept him from taking her into the Circle. Part of the reason was inertia. He simply didn't have enough hours in the day to track down each and every single apostate in Kirkwall (where were they all _coming_ from? And why aren't they going _back_?) There was also the recent proliferation of blonde Tranquil that struck Cullen as off, somehow. He didn't have enough hours in the day to track down that little phenomena, either, but was unwilling to expose the girl to whatever was being done to the other women. And, finally, after seeing her and her friends fight he wasn't entirely certain there were enough Templars in Kirkwall to drag her in if she was unwilling. And that would make things even more awkward for Carver. The poor boy didn't need any help in that regard.

And so he found himself at the Hawke estate with Ser Thrask and Keran. The younger seemed to be feeling as awkward as Cullen, which was some comfort. Thrask was grinning broadly at the scene.

And what a scene it was. They made their way through the foyer, which was full of mercs; Red Iron, if Cullen recognized their gear correctly. Upon crossing into the main hall, they were greeted with an equal number of city guards, Fereldan refugees, and employees of the Blooming Rose. There was an odd smell in the air, like peat smoke but sweeter, and empty wine bottles were scattered everywhere.

In the center of the room was a group of singers playing various instruments. The majority of the guest were dancing and drinking, and a number had found various pieces of furniture to use for various stages of lovemaking.

This had been a terrible idea, he concluded, and he was about to just turn and go back to the barracks when he was stopped in his tracks by the girl of the hour herself.

"Cullen!" Laica cried with infectious delight, bounding over to them, "Thrask! _And_ Keran! This is so marvelous, I wasn't sure any of you would come at all. But come in, make yourselves comfortable! Here, have some wine. Fenris brought plenty. Do any of you like spindleweed? Because we have a smoke room over in where I think the library is supposed to go." She giggled, her eyes slightly glassy.

There were probably better words for what Laica was wearing than "scandalous", but that was all that Cullen could think of. It certainly wasn't a "dress". In fact, it seemed to be simply a length of purple silk that somebody had cut a hole in the middle of to fit her head through, and then tied about the waist with a wide silver ribbon. And then cut some more, until it was open almost the all the way to her navel.

"Thank you, a glass of wine would be lovely," Thrask said graciously. "But, my dear, aren't you a bit cold?"

Laica laughed again and twirled, exposing so much of her legs that Cullen began to feel dizzy. "Do you like it? Isabela and I made it."

"Now, now, Laica," chided a smirking elf as he wrapped and arm around her waist. "I helped with the concept."

She giggled. Cullen's mouth when dry and he tried to find something else to look at. "You did, Fenris," she cooed. "Or you watched, and gave us the directions of 'Lower', 'Tighter'."

Fenris shrugged. "I know what I like, " was all he said before sauntering off.

"So," Laica linked arms with Cullen and Thrask, leading them into the crowd. "Is anybody else from the Chantry going to be joining you?"

"Oh, right, that," Cullen clutched the topic like a lifeline. "Your brother sends his regards. He was not granted leave to come." Which wasn't exactly true. But it probably wouldn't please Laica to hear what Carver had actually said when presented with the invitation.

"Carver?" she repeated, eyes trying to focus. "Oh! _Carver_! Right. That is a shame. I wonder if... Oh, bother," she muttered under her breath before scampering up the stairs.

Cullen looked up to see what had caught her attention just in time to see an elf woman leap from the railing and start swinging on the chandelier.

Yes, he was most certainly out of his element. 

* * *

Fenris had to admit, however grudgingly, that the party was much more entertaining than he had expected. And not just because of the giggling girl who was snuggled up next to him. He was just on the right side of pleasantly drunk, where the other's antics amused instead of enraged him. He had watched as the young Templar Keran managed to flirt with every female apostate that had wandered in, blushing in surprise each time. He had listened as Varric recounted their recent adventures in the Deep Roads to an enthralled audience. The dwarf hadn't quite polished this story to perfection yet, but he was getting close. He had dodged as Merrill and Sandal chased Laica's dog away from the spilled wine. But perhaps the greatest entertainment was found in Laica's deft sidestepping of Anders' attempts to get her to sleep with him. It was almost entertaining enough to make up for the fact that she wasn't about to sleep with him, either.

Which was odd. She seemed to like him well enough. He often had the pleasure of her company since she had moved to High Town. But there was always a wall between them, some impenetrable barrier she had erected and defended so expertly he had not yet found a weakness, and was beginning to doubt that he ever would.

It was possible that she was exclusively interested in women, Fenris realized. It made more sense than any other explanation he could come up with.

Somehow, Anders got his hands on a lute, and took it over to the stairs where he sat and strummed mournfully. Almost immediately, he was surrounded with a swooning crowd of young women, and a few men.

"Oh," the girl on Fenris' lap sighed. "He's so... tragic."

"That's one word for it," Fenris muttered into his bottle.

"Hm?" the girl asked, nuzzling his neck.

"Oh, nothing." Fenris raised his bottle in a toast to Anders as he gamely struggled through a few melancholy chords. "May he be blessed with what he seeks. Or at least with something blond enough that he calms down."

The girl sat up and squinted at him quizzically, which wasn't a good look for her at all. But, thankfully, before she could say anything Laica provided a commotion.

"Maker's breath, Anders! What are you doing to my lute?" She demanded, hands on hips.

"I'm playing it," he responded without looking at her.

"No you're not, you're torturing it," Laica reached for the instrument and he pulled it out of her grasp.

"I think his playing is lovely," sighed one of the girls.

"No you don't," Laica shook her head. "You think _he's_ lovely so you're willing to overlook his utter lack of talent. And he is lovely. Just look at you," Laica crouched in front of him and pulled his chin up. "Why don't you take a few of your adoring crowd upstairs and impress them with your soulfulness some more and you can all have yourselves a good time, eh?"

Anders furrowed his brow and looked up at her. "But I don't want any of _them_."

Laica sighed. "What if I promised to sing you something you like, hm? In fact, I'll even let you pick!"

Anders was quiet for a long time, and bowed his head as if he were considering the lute. But Fenris would have been very surprised if he was actually looking at the instrument and not Laica's impressive display of decolletage. Finally, he looked up and handed it to her. "Colleen."

She grinned broadly. "Am I blessed among all women?" she asked impishly before skipping to the middle of the room. "You'll have to help me out," she said, stamping her foot in a regular rhythm. As the guests picked up the beat, she unleashed a dazzlingly quick waterfall of notes from the battered old lute, spinning in a slow circle. (Which did marvelous things for her backside.) "_I'll tell it as I best know how_," she began to sing the old Fereldan song, "_And that's the way it was told to me. I-_"

And she stopped dead in her tracks as the most recent guest did the same. 

* * *

"Lady Hawke," Sebastian said, "I apologize for the lateness of my arrival, I only recently returned from Hasmal."

"Oh, no matter! We're just getting started," Laica laughed. "I didn't think you would be coming, it's so good to see you! And I'm no lady," she rambled, cheeks blushing slightly. "I just came into a bit of money. Would you like some wine?"

Before he had a chance to respond, somebody handed him a half-full bottle. _When in Tevinter_, he thought as he took a swig. And was surprised at the quality. "This is an excellent vintage," he exclaimed, "where did you get it?"

"Um," Laica bit her lip and glanced back at a white-haired elf in the corner. "It's better that you don't ask those kind of questions. Oh! But I have something for you," she grabbed his hand and began to lead him to the stairs.

"You promised us a song," the elf cried out. "You can't leave now."

"Fine, fine," she rolled her eyes. "I hope you like music," she said bashfully, as she resumed the song she had been playing when he came in.

"I love music," he said, settling on a stool. "I was taught to play as a child. It's one of the luxuries I have found myself unable to give up."

"Marvelous," she grinned, and launched into her song.

He had heard the song before, from Fereldan traveling minstrels that found their way to the Marches. But they always seemed to imbue it with a sort of sadness, which Laica rejected. In her hands, the song was not a dirge, but an exultation. She danced as she sang. It was utterly mesmerizing.

Sebastian found himself feeling embarrassed that he had nearly decided not to attend. When he found the invitation waiting for him in his room at the Chantry, he couldn't remember who Laica Hawke was, and couldn't imagine why such a person would desire his presence.

But then he considered the fact that she was living in High Town. That meant she had money, something he was in dire need of. And perhaps with that money would come useful contacts in other cities. It was worth a night of stuffy conversation and dull jokes if it could get him closer to his goal.

He certainly wasn't expecting _this_, and found himself feeling quite light-headed by the time the lovely Fereldan girl finished her song. Whether it was from the wine, the smoke, or the way her skirt teased at revealing just a bit more of her leg each time she swayed or spun, he could not be sure. He and the other guests burst into wild applause as she bowed and handed the lute back to Anders.

"You aren't going to sing again," Sebastian asked as she came to him, feeling oddly disappointed.

"No, silly," she laughed, pulling him up. "I told you that I have something for you, and I would like to give it- Just what are you smirking at, Fenris?" she demanded of the elf.

"Nothing, just. Things making sense," he quipped before hurling the mostly-empty bottle at the wall.

"Well, that's certainly good news," she said, sidestepping the shattered glass and leading Sebastian up the stairs.

After the crowd in the foyer, the main hall, and the upstairs hall, it surprised Sebastian to discover that the guests had left Laica's bedchambers untouched. As wild as the celebration was, they all retained a respect for her that left this area alone.

And she had invited him alone into this space. As cavernous as the room was, and as far apart from her as he kept himself, it still felt intensely intimate. He began to feel uneasy. She went to a locked chest by the fireplace, knelt down, and rummaged through it.

The silence was unnerving. "Have you lived in High Town long?" he asked, trying to spark up conversation. He barely knew this woman, what could she possibly have to give to him?

Laica laughed, which strangely put him at ease. "Did you notice my friends? No, I have not lived here long. Just moved in about a week ago. Took a while to clear out all the slave smugglers who've been using this place for the last twenty years or so." She did not even try to hide the disgust in her voice. "Ah, here it is," she said triumphantly, holding up a small wooden box.

"You should know I've taken vows of poverty," he said, discomfort returning. "I cannot, in good faith, accept a gift of any value. It would be better if you donated it directly to the Chantry."

She regarded him a moment, that sadness that so haunted him returning to her eyes. "I don't think the Chantry would have much use for this. And nobody would pay anything worth donating if I tried to sell it." She took his hand and pressed the box into it. "Will you accept it if I promise to donate a sovereign in your name?"

"Very well," he conceded, curiosity piqued by her description. He opened the box to find a locket that looked strangely familiar. "How did you know?" he asked, feeling as if the ground had dropped out from under his feet. "Why did you go to the trouble?"

"You should probably open it," she said, the smile returning to her voice, "before you think me completely mad."

He opened the locket to find a tiny portrait of himself on one side, and "_Nothing that He has wrought shall be lost—Trials 1:14_" engraved on the other. "Where did you get this? " he asked, temper rising. The room had grown oppressively close, he struggled to breathe. "How did you-"

"Maker, you've gone pale," she gasped. "Here, come out on the balcony and get some air."

She opened the doors and he followed her out. The air rushed into his lungs as the world slowly righted itself. "I apologize," he said, feeling ashamed. "I don't know what came over me."

"So it is you in the picture," she said. "I saw the Starkhaven crest on the front and I thought the picture looked like you."

He turned the locket over in his hands, like it held some sort of magic that could undo time. "It belonged to my mother." He had never known what she kept in the locket. He had assumed pictures of his brothers. But in fact it was an image of _him_ that she had kept close to her heart all those years. After everything he had said, after everything he had done. It was too much.

Laica leaned against the railing. "I found it on one of those mercs you had me kill. I meant to give it to you before, but it slipped my mind. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said emphatically. "This is... more than I deserve."

He looked up at her, and she was smiling but the sadness was again in her eyes. "What happened in Hasmal?" she asked.

The angry pit of frustration sucked him in. "Turncoat lick spittles," he muttered, clenching his fists. The locket bit into his palm, but he paid it no heed. "They say all the right things to my face but as soon as I leave they're paying their tribute to my usurper cousin. I cannot manage allies such as these on my own. I need somebody I can depend upon."

"What about Dumar?" she asked, turning and leaning her elbows on the railing, looking out over the city. He tried to not notice the way her skirts drifted in the breeze, or the inviting curve of her back.

"He's got his own problems," he shook his head and went to the railing as well, putting her out of his line of vision. "And since most of them come clad in chantry robes, he's hardly inclined to help me."

She was quiet a long time. "It seems to me that they're thinking of a weak Starkhaven as a benefit. They can probably make trade deals in their favor, profit off of your cousin's incompetence."

"Yes," he agreed, gripping the railing. "By the time I finally regain what is rightfully mine, there may not be much left."

"Well, you just have to convince the other princes that a weak Starkhaven is a threat," she mused. "If there were some outside force, say, Tevinter or Orlais or another Blight, who would rally the cities to defend the Free Marches? What other city has the resources or location to do such a thing?" She shrugged. "Of course, what do I know? I'm just an uneducated refugee."

Sebastian considered her words. There was wisdom in them, however much it was couched in self-deprecation. "You make a good point. I shall consider that approach the next time I embark." He sighed. "I had been trying to appeal to their honor."

"Honor will only get you so far," she said in a cynical tone. "And it's a lot to expect the ruling power of anything to think of 'honor' above their own pockets and the well-being of their own people."

"You are right," he said, feeling strangely sad. "Perhaps I've been in the Chantry too long to make much of a politician." He turned the locket over in his hands. "Oh, listen to me. Here I am at this lovely party, monopolizing your time with my own woes. I apologize."

"Don't," she grinned, leaning towards him. "I needed a break from all the commotion. And besides, I like talking to you. You're interesting."

She was so lovely and the wine was going straight to his head. He had to stop this before it got out of hand. "You should know," he said as gently as he could. "That poverty was not the only vow I took."

She smiled again and looked away. "Fair enough. But you took no vow foreswearing friendship, I hope?"

"I don't think the Maker, even at His most demanding, would expect such a sacrifice of his servants," Sebastian replied, feeling relief at how easily the situation was resolved.

"Well, I don't know about you," Laica shivered and stood up, "but I'm not dressed for this kind of weath-"

"Laica!" a frantic-looking young Dalish woman burst onto the balcony. "Come quick! Somebody set the library rug on fire!"

"Andraste on the _spit_, Merrill," Laica cursed, running back into the house. "Did nobody think to put it out?" 

* * *

Laica awoke the next morning on the floor of the kitchen, wrapped up in a bearskin rug. "Oh, my head," she groaned as the room lurched around her.

"Rise and shine, bearskins," Varric shook her. "Blondie's offered to help out with the hangovers."

"Oh Maker, really? Anders, where are you?" Laica scrambled to her feet. "I need you!" Her mouth felt like some small rodent had crawled in and died. Her stomach flipped.

"Fine, fine," Anders muttered, coming in from the other room. He gently touched her head and relieved the tight bands of headache that had wrapped her skull.

"Oh you are a gift. A gift straight from the Golden City," she moaned as her stomach settled. "I need some water."

"If there's nothing else you need, I'm going to go back to the Clinic." Anders said, heading for the basement.

"I might come down later," Laica said as she grabbed the water pitcher. "There's some mail I got yesterday I want to discuss with you."

Anders nodded and left.

Isabela waited until he was gone to start gossiping. "So," she quirked an eyebrow at Laica as she peeled an orange. "Any interesting... developments last night? You were missing for quite a while with Ser Chantry."

"Ugh," Laica huffed. "Well, turns out the locket was his mother's. And I don't know what _that_ means, but he almost fainted when I gave it to him." She gulped down some water, it tasted cool and sweet on her fuzzy tongue. "However. He then informed me that he took a vow of chastity."

Isabela and Varric broke into uproarious laughter. "Really? Ouch!" Varric made a pained expression. "After all that work just … nothing?"

"I managed to impress him with my political astuteness, though," she said haughtily. "So, at least there's _that_."

Varric and Isabela laughed even harder. "You? Politically astute?" Isabela handed her half of the orange. "Since when?"

"Since he decided to retake his crown by appealing to their sense of honor," Laica rolled her eyes. "At any rate, for as much of an utter failure as my plan was, at least I succeeded in one thing."

"And what was that?" Varric rocked his chair back and sipped some tea.

"There's no way he's ever going to forget who I am. Ever. Again."

* * *

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A/N Many thanks to the enthusiastic Zevgirl for the story inspiration, and the long-suffering Decantate for the beta :D


	6. Good Is Better Than Perfect

A/N: This one jumps back to somewhere in the middle of Act II

* * *

Laica clutched her hands together and tried to pray. What she truly needed at that moment was courage, so she prayed for that.

The confessional door opened and a man slunk out, looking glum. Laica took a deep breath, then another. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw an old woman creeping towards the now-vacant penitent's cell. Laica darted ahead of her. If she didn't go now, she'd leave. Again.

She slammed the door shut and scrambled to the small kneeler. "Maker have mercy on me, a sinner," she began, slightly breathless. "It's been..." she tried to remember. Had she _really_ not been to confession since Lothering? "Uh... a long time since I've confessed."

The priest cleared his throat. "Proceed, my child," he said in a gravelly voice.

"Well, first I should confess that I pushed an old woman out of the way to get in here. I feel bad about that, but if I had waited any longer I would have lost my nerve."

The priest coughed a dry, hacking cough. "That can't be why you are here, though."

"No," Laica sighed. "It's not. I'm here because of something that happened a while ago. And... it's hard to explain because I'm not sure what my sin was but I'm pretty sure I did sin somewhere because I feel really guilty about it. I'm just having trouble figuring out why."

"Perhaps you could just tell me what happened," the priest suggested. "Maybe we can determine the cause of your guilty conscience together."

Laica wrung her hands. "First of all, we were out on the Wounded Coast hunting some slavers. And we later killed them, but I'm not sorry for that. And I don't think it's a sin in the eye of the Maker to kill slavers. Because wasn't Andraste a slave? Isn't slavery a worse sin than murder? I can't see how killing slavers is a sin." She thought a moment. "Is it a sin to kill slavers? Is that what I feel sorry about?"

"That is a complicated question," the priest mused. "You see-"

"Oh, blast!" she slammed her hand on the prayer rail. "I'm not sorry at all. I've killed plenty more than that. That's not what I feel bad about. So my friends, Varric, Isabela and-" she stopped herself. "And somebody else who lives around here so I'm not going to tell you his name. You might know him, and I don't want to embarrass him."

"Whatever you feel comfortable with sharing, my child," the priest rasped.

"We were tracking these slavers along the Wounded Coast," she continued, "But it was taking longer than I thought. So we made camp. And that's where the trouble started."

"What trouble?" the priest asked.

"I'm getting to that, stop interrupting!" she exclaimed, feeling irritable. "I have to get this story out or I'll lose my nerve _again_. I've tried to confess this _five times_ already."

"That's a lot of times," the priest said, amused.

"It is. And I could do without the condescension, thank you very much," Laica bristled at his tone

"You are right," the priest sounded sincerely sorry. "My apologies. Please continue."

"Thank you, I will," Laica straightened her robe. "Now where was I? Oh yes. Camp. I didn't tell you, earlier, but Boney had come with us, too."

"Who is Boney?"

"Oh! Sorry. Boney is my dog. I guess you wouldn't know that. Anyway. There was a stream nearby and my friend decided that he wanted to take a bath. Which was really stupid, might I add. We were only out for one night, he could have lived without a bath. The rest of us did. If he wasn't so damned _fussy_ this never would have happened."

"But he is not the one confessing," the priest prodded gently.

"Fine!" Laica huffed. "So my really stupid friend decided he wanted to take a bath. And then my other friends decided to play a prank on him. They found his clothes, and put some scraps of jerky in the pockets."

"That seems like a fairly harmless prank," the priest said, sounding dismissive.

"No!" Laica exclaimed. "It wasn't! But you're forgetting about Boney! They knew he would smell the food, and they thought he would just mess up his clothes. And sense he's so void-taken fussy about everything he would get mad. But that's not what Boney did."

"What did Boney do," the priest asked, the hint of amusement returning to his dry, harsh voice.

Laica decided to ignore it this time. "He dragged my friend's clothes away, all the way back to camp. And when I saw them, I didn't know who they belonged to. My friend usually wears armor, I thought Boney had gotten clothes off a dead body or something! So I took them off the dog to see if they were worth selling. But that's when-"

"Let me guess," the priest said, sounding oddly weary. "That's when your friend appeared."

"Yes! And he said 'Hawke, give me back my pants!'" she said in a poor attempt at Sebastian's accent, "and I just froze, Father. I just froze. I had no idea. And I was so embarrassed. And he stalked over to me and he was so angry. And I guess that's when I started feeling guilty, even though I hadn't done anything wrong!"

"Did you explain the situation to him," the priest asked.

Laica slumped forward, rubbing her forehead. "I tried, Father. But the words just didn't come out. I mean. He was just all naked and wet and angry and he is so attractive and I just couldn't put words together."

The priest was quiet for a moment. "I can see how that would be distracting."

"Very. I'm glad you sympathize," she said, feeling some measure of relief. "So he just grabbed his pants from me and put them on and then he just stood there fuming until he said, 'And I'll have my shirt back, thank you very much,' and snatched it off me and just stalked away."

"So your friend believed that you had stolen his clothing," the priest said.

"Yes," Laica said, feeling just as miserable as she had back at camp. "And then he wouldn't speak to me the rest of the trip. And when I tried to visit with him when we were back in town, I was told he was sick with a cold and wouldn't see me."

The priest coughed again. "Yes, that has been going around the Chantry dormitory. But, my child, I am afraid I still do not understand. You have explained how the prank was your friends' idea, your dog behaved in a way they didn't expect, and your other friend was mistaken about your role in the prank. What, precisely, is your culpability?"

Laica chewed her lip. "Well, this part gets rather embarrassing."

The priest cleared his throat. "Remember, I am merely the conduit for your words to reach the Maker. And He already knows what's in your heart. There is no shame."

That didn't make much sense to Laica, but she didn't want to get sidetracked again. "It didn't stop there. Well, I mean, his involvement stopped there. But I can't stop thinking about him. And I..." she took a deep breath. "I have dreams and... other thoughts while I'm awake and I try not to because it feels wrong. Like I'm disrespecting him somehow. I don't know what to do. I feel so guilty about it."

"How are your idle thoughts disrespectful? Are you telling others about them? Actively attempting to seduce the man?"

"No, of course not! I would never!" she protested. "But I'm afraid that I'll say something or do something and I'll make him uncomfortable or maybe he won't want to be my friend anymore and I can't bear the thought of him thinking ill of me," she blurted, tears springing to her eyes. "I won't lie to you. I do have feelings for him beyond friendship but he cannot reciprocate so that is what I will be satisfied with. At least, that's what I _tell _myself but then I keep having these _thoughts _and what if I say or do something and he realizes? I mean, you took vows, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," the priest said.

"Were you ever friends with a member of the laity? Could you still be friends with that person if you knew they touched themselves thinking about you?" She blurted.

The priest broke into a hacking coughing fit that lasted several moments as Laica tried to to control her tears of frustration. "That would be awkward," he gasped at last. "However, regardless of whatever vows your friend took, you are not bound by any. You have not trained your mind and body to resist these urges. It is a new concept for you. Your feelings of guilt are understandable, if a bit misplaced."

"What should I do?" Laica implored, feeling desperate.

"First, I would recommend trying to see your friend again and apologizing for the incident. Explain it the way you explained to me." He paused a moment. "Except for the bits about how attractive you find him, of course. But give him the chance to realize his mistake."

"Fine. But if he won't see me again I'm going to blame you," she said sullenly.

"Also, the next time you feel the need to, ahem, relieve your feelings," he said delicately. "Perhaps you could focus your thoughts on a more neutral target, and thus avoid adding to your feelings of guilt."

Laica sighed. "I'll try. It's going to be hard, though," she admitted. "I tell you, Father, I have never seen a more handsome man in my life."

"I'm sure that is the result of not looking very hard," the priest chided gently. "Or perhaps you could try imagining someone."

"I could try that," Laica said, trying to sound more reassured than she felt. "Well, that's it. I should go. I mean, for that and all other transgressions I have neglected to mention I am truly sorry."

"Go in the light of the Maker, my child," the priest said. "And don't forget to apologize to the old woman."

* * *

Laica left the confessional not feeling very much better. She still wasn't fully convinced that Sebastian really had a cold, and trying to think of where she could go to find a man more attractive than him (did such a person even exist? Maybe she'd have better luck imagining...) She was so involved in her own thoughts that she didn't even see Merrill and Isabela waiting for their turn.

"Laica!" Merrill chirped. "Do you play the game, too?"

"I, what?" Laica asked, very confused. "What game?"

"We call it 'Have mercy on me, Sebastian'," Isabela grinned. "Basically, ever since Merrill and I found out that he hears confession we've been coming and seeing how long we can go until he throws us out."

"We have to disguise our voices, though," Merrill dropped her voice an octave and made a valiant attempt at a Fereldan accent. "Because after the first few times he just started tossing us immediately."

"I still remember the first time he figured it out that it was me," Isabela snickered. "He said 'Isabela, you realize that confession only counts if you are truly penitent, right?'"

Laica felt as if the ground dropped out from under her feet as the two women doubled over in uncontrollable giggles. "They said he had a cold," she said to herself, disbelieving, as the pieces fell into place and she went cold all over.

"Oh, no! Laica, you've gone pale," Merrill noted with some concern. "Are you well? Have you eaten today?"

Just then the other confessional door opened and Laica turned to see Sebastian emerge, coughing into a handkerchief.

"I have to go," she said and bolted.

* * *

Sebastian soon realized that Laica would not be able to face him without encouragement. Which is how he found himself standing in her main hall, making small talk with Bodahn Feddic as her mother went to "see" if she was in her rooms.

"I apologize," Leandra said as she came back down the stairs. "I'm afraid she simply is not at home. Perhaps you could check Anders' clinic? She often goes there when she says it's too boring in the estate with just me."

Anders' lair was the last place in Thedas Sebastian had any desire to go. He kept his expression neutral. "Perhaps I will," he turned to go. "Oh, actually," he said, as a thought occurred. "Would it be possible for me to leave a note?"

"Absolutely," Bodhan said with his customary enthusiasm. "You will find Serah Hawke's writing desk right this way."

That night, when Laica stumbled home with a head spinning with wine and a heart still full of woe, she found a note waiting for her.

* * *

_Laica,_

_ I forgot to mention this when we last spoke. Another option would be to perform a penance at the home for unwed mothers in Lowtown. They are often in need of volunteers to help with the laundry. _

_ I find it helpful when I am in need of absolution from similar sins. Perhaps I will see you there?_

_ Sebastian._

"Fine," she shouted at the unoffending scrap of paper. "I will!"

* * *

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Many thanks to Xogs, the resident troublemaker, for the beta. And thanks to FeatheredRaven aka TheSilverRaven for the inspirational art :D


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